Slowly, suddenly, your life slipped out
of your hands and fell into a Map - drawn
by hands stronger than yours. Before you
even knew who to ask where you were goi-
ng, “To Success”, they whispered. They spo-
ke of it like Gospel. Promised it tasted like
Freedom. But it always came with Conditio-
ns. Be more. Do more. More and More.”But
more than what, whom?” You couldn’t stop
to think. Because stopping meant falling be-
hind. So you chased Success. For some it w-
as the Numbers on their Bank accounts or
for some, the house: a mortgage, a front y-
ard to show off and a kitchen you barely h-
ave time to cook: all for somebody’s appro-
val. For some, it was the Climb. Promotion
after promotion, each one feeling less like
an arrival. You told yourself: It was normal.
The endless hustle for praise, for place. Just
existing wasn’t enough. You had to earn it.
Climb it. More and more! Stop. Stop. Stop!
It’s a life, not a project and for god’s sake,
You’re allowed to live it! So just live it.

-

There’s a spark of madness you’ve
held back for too long. Not the kind
that burns your skin or makes you a
spectacle. Not that. It’s a slow amber
flickering beneath your ribs, hoping a
release with every kick of your heart.
Oh, you’ve called it names. Distraction.
Nonsense. Something to keep at bay.
To be tamed and kept under vigil.“What
would people say?!” But it grows in the
dark, ‘n becomes a language of its own.
Your bones speak it when your tongue
refuses to. It yearns for a release, still.
Need not be loud or bright. Subtle but
absolute.Like a breath held too long
finally exhaled. The Release. Let it soak
your skin. Blur the edges. Let the spark
return your wildness beneath the polish.
Let it take you back to the trembling joy
of wonders, you nearly forgot was yours.
Just let it. Be it.

-

They say it’s the ghost hour
Only, it’s not the dead
who walk the streets,

But memories—
Departed memories,
Forgotten but never truly gone.

They hide in the corners of your mind,
You don’t even know they’re there.
They’ve always been there.

They don’t haunt.
They just stay.
Not with anger,
But with quiet comfort,
Like your sorrow
Was their home.

You try to ignore them—
But on some nights,
Darker than your deepest secrets—
You feel them staring back at you.

A reassuring tap on your back
Whispering: “I’m with you.
Always have been”.

The Ghost Hours.

-

A perpetual draft
That’s what I’ve been
My whole life.
But can a life in draft
Be whole, if at all it can be?

I listen to people
But I try hard
not to edit my Soul
With their grammar
Of incomplete lives.

At times, I wish my Soul
Were made of greater material
Than the ephemeral words in my ears,
Perhaps, with a padding for support
Made of snow and autumn leaves.

If only I can be mercurial
An island of my own
From the ruckus that the life is.
If only I can’t listen to myself
(The larger ruckus there is)
And build a room within myself.

Even then won’t this system
Collapse from the inside?
For who can read a book
Half eaten by time and
Half eaten by termites?

-

Affliction Brought by an Irish Interval

it’s getting darker and colder
and I wish you were here,
on this couch, closer
snuggled into each other’s wrap
or lying on your lap
drinking the fountain in your mouth
playing the strings of your lips,
how I wish you were here.

a body and some clothes:
so have you left me behind.
a second hand in the clock-
I’m running after you
my mind and musings without
like a cloud over your head
touching, yet not
watching your every step
walking together
being one
us…

-

here, drink my dreams
from the chalice of my lips,
put on my wings
and take me underneath
cozy and snug,
like a warm blanket’s care.

fly we shall
over the dusty clouds
beyond the blue dome
in a graceful dance
until the earth’s a star
and night’s opium calls.

here, drink my dreams
from the chalice of my heart
let’s dream on and on
together and awaken
in forever’s land.

for darling, don’t you know
where your breath falls on me
is the farthest we can be
and so how can we even fathom
being a dream apart?

a dream apart?

-

how does being heard
has anything to do with
finding your voice?

i write a line or two
and see it go away from me
where it is headed
or whom it reaches
i don’t know but why should i?

writing or speaking
and wanting it to get heard
is like watching the sun
and wanting it to see you back.

for there is nothing outside
everything else is a fiction,
not a lie as some would prefer,
rather like a touch of fantasy
decorating our dumb ideas.

Still I write
still I will write
even if they end up
mummified in a tomb
or in another galaxy
burst into ashes.

Still I will write
for how does being heard
has anything to do with
finding your voice?

-

this book with a name on my lap,
the whirls of steam from coffee cup,
this whole image in the mirror,
or these strange combination of words,
what is real?

bought a friend a book with the same name,
vanished the steam, my coffee turned cold,
broke the mirror: I a million pieces,
and forgotten was my poetry in time,
what is real?

“they are but a copy of a copy”,
laughed an old man in Greece,
“it is but a trial to the life after it”
the Father and the Son said too,
is real not real then?

but what’s this force beating against my heart,
the river of thoughts flowing to a world
far from the feet of another man,
the odd joy of full life in head,
can they be true, my imagination: my Maya?

-

Why become like them
when you can be yourself?
Why be one among them
when you can be the one?

-

in the digital age
your passport photo
in my wallet.

-